


Whatever Happened to the Boy that I Once Knew

by lamerezouille



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamerezouille/pseuds/lamerezouille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry wakes up in St. Mungo’s after a robbery case went wrong, and finds himself needing to pick up the pieces between his two best friends and resolving the weirdest case of his Auror career at the same time. Oh, and there’s also something about Draco Malfoy, but Harry has absolutely no idea who that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever Happened to the Boy that I Once Knew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clearbluewater3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearbluewater3/gifts).



> **Warnings:** homophobia from a beloved character.  
>  **Content/Enticements:** Mystery! Romance! and a walk down memory lane.  
>  **Author’s Notes:** Dear clearbluewater3, your prompt got a little bit away from me, but I really hope you’ll enjoy what it inspired me. Title from The Shrangi-Las’ _Remember (Walkin’ in the Sand)_. Huge thanks to my beta L, and to the mods for such a nice fest.

Harry’s eyes didn’t want to open, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted them to either. There was an unbearable throbbing in the general area between his eyes and the back of his neck, and his limbs felt like they were filled with lead. Something unpleasant was tickling his nose, maybe some dust or maybe just the kind of very strong smell that felt almost physical. The fabric of the linen on his skin felt familiar, too: a little too rough, a little too dry but with an undeniable grain of small comfort.

His eyelids hurt at the simple idea of moving, but there was light on his face, the sound of a door opening nearby, and he could clearly sense that someone had entered the room. Harry had gone through enough grueling months of Auror training not to let himself get caught unawares because of lazy eyelids.

The sound of a few steps getting closer shook him into action. In under five seconds, he opened his eyes, identified the place he was in—St. Mungo’s, thank Merlin—sat up, scrambled for his wand lying on the nightstand, and pointed it at his visitor in what he hoped was as threatening as a pose from a hospital-bed-ridden man could be.

‘Who are you?’ he tried to bark with his most impressive Auror regalia. He must have been at St. Mungo’s for something very legitimate, though, because it came out as the croak of a just-escaped-from-dying man. Which, if he were honest with himself, was not at all unfamiliar in Harry’s mouth. How come it was always Harry who just escaped from dying? Ron did the exact same job he did, went on the exact same cases, and ended up in St. Mungo’s half as much as Harry did. It was pretty unfair if you asked him.

The person standing in his hospital room was a man around the same age as Harry with what looked like a pretty expensive black cloak and an incredulous expression on his face. And yeah, perhaps this kind of thing was not what Harry had been trained to notice, but even without his glasses on, he could see the man was also all kinds of gorgeous.

‘You very well know who I am, Potter, you wanker!’ the bloke practically yelled (he seemed to respect the hospital environment enough not to yell _completely_ ), fury invading his features. ‘You know that I only learnt you were in hospital half an hour ago? You’ve been there for twelve hours, for Merlin’s sake!’

Okay, so this guy definitely didn’t work at St. Mungo’s but was also definitely barking mad because Harry was pretty sure he’d never met him in his whole life despite the stranger acting as if they had pretty recent history. Maybe he was one of those crazed stalkers Hermione had warned him his fame might bring out. When he thought stalker, Harry generally imagined hysterical teenage girl or creepy old men though, not pissed off gorgeous blonds.

The guy was definitely advancing on him now, and his eyes looked like they were more and more likely to pop out of his face. He looked rather dangerous, but Harry still had his wand trained on him, and the man didn’t seem inclined to take out his own. Harry wasn’t used to cursing an unarmed man and was debating internally whether he should cast a defensive spell or not when the angry blond man pounced on him, somehow managed to avoid Harry’s pointed wand, grabbed his face, and kissed him. It was a very nice kiss, the kind you felt you had to deserve. It was skilled and passionate with tongue and everything, and Harry was already starting to melt into it when his brain caught up with what was happening.

Harry pushed the man away a little too reluctantly, considering what reason (or Hermione) would have recommended.

‘What the hell, Harry?’ the man went on, more softly, and with something akin to wistful in his voice. ‘I cannot live with that, Harry. You’ve got to tell your friends. _At least_ your friends,’ he was pleading now, and Harry felt very uncomfortable faced with the pain replacing the anger on the man’s beautiful face. ‘What if you hadn’t made it, Harry? I wouldn’t even—they don’t know about us, and it’s killing me. I was so worried, and nobody even knows about us…’

Harry wanted to answer that he didn’t “know about us” himself, but the man looked so miserable that Harry hadn’t the heart to be so harsh about it.

‘Look, I’m really sorry, but I—I actually don’t know who you are…’ Harry tried to say as gently as possible. He was starting to feel almost guilty about this. As if he was responsible for this man’s delusion. The man was frowning now and staring right into Harry’s eyes. He clearly didn’t believe him, and Harry didn’t know what to say to convince him of his honesty (and maybe also of the man’s own craziness).

‘Er… Maybe the person you’re looking for is in another room…’ Harry tried, unwrapping carefully the man’s long and elegant fingers from his face.

‘Harry!’ The man cut him off, his voice almost a growl. He opened his mouth as if he was going to shout again, but he must have seen something on Harry’s face because instead of what was sure to have been an angry rant, there were worried eyes and a trembling voice asking, ‘What is the last thing you remember before waking up here?’

‘I was investigating a case of robbery with Ron in the magical aisle of the British Museum,’ Harry answered automatically. ‘We must have gotten attacked, but I don’t actually remember anything after going in.’ The guy’s face fell, and Harry had to rein himself in not to feel guilty about it. Also, his Auror senses were starting to tingle: why would a virtual stranger want to know about this case? ‘No offence, but I really don’t think it’s any of your business.’

Harry could see the man’s face trying to shut down completely, to no longer let any of his distress be seen, but there still was something in his eyes—they were a light grey, and how was this colour even possible?—something like hope, and Harry couldn’t help himself from listening attentively to the next words that came out of his mouth.

‘Very well. I need to know one more thing, Harry. One thing and I’ll let you alone, I swear. Whose wand did you defeat the Dark Lord with?’

It was such an odd question, and Harry’s suspicion grew twofold towards the use of the Dark Lord epithet, but there was still this spark in the man’s eyes—Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen anything like it in anyone else’s eyes—and he felt compelled to answer, ‘It wasn’t mine. It was the one that had been used to disarm Dumbledore before his death. I… Well, I don’t actually remember whose it was though…’ There was something very fuzzy in his mind as if a part of his brain that had always worked perfectly was suddenly uncooperative, and Harry could feel pain blossom at the back of his skull. ‘Listen, I’ve been injured very recently, and I’d like to rest for a bit now, do you mind?’

The last thing Harry heard before falling back asleep was the sound of steps fading away and the door clicking shut.

~

The next time Harry woke up, not only did he feel much, _much_ better, but he was also greeted by the friendly and definitely _known_ face of one Hermione Granger. She looked a bit pale though, and even with a small smile gracing her features, her eyes looked a little too red and too bright as if she’d just been crying.

‘Are you all right?’ Harry asked at once. She nodded right away, but her smile dimmed a little bit, too, and Harry didn’t like that at all. There was definitely something wrong, and Harry felt a tightening in his chest. Just because Ron wasn’t in the same hospital room as him didn’t mean that he hadn’t been injured, too. ‘Is Ron all right?’ he said carefully as he sat up in his bed and put on his glasses, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be the Boy Who Lived Whilst All His Friends Died once more.

‘He’s alive and in one piece, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Hermione said with enough calmness in her voice that Harry’s heart knew it could resume beating normally. ‘He’s a giant wanker, though.’

‘Hermione!’ Harry said, unexpectedly outraged. He’d never heard Hermione swear while sober, and even if the word was used amongst Aurors so much that it had almost become a term of endearment, in the mouth of the brightest witch of their age, “wanker” felt like the most offensive word in the world.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Harry. He absolutely is the worst berk right now, and I’d rather you were the sympathising friend I need than this offended old maiden right now,’ Hermione said bitterly, wiping her eyes with the back of a hand. Harry had been right, then: she _had_ been crying.

She sat down on the chair used earlier by his weird admirer. Harry suddenly thought about asking her if she had any idea who this bloke could be and why he’d imagined he and Harry had some kind of secret relationship, but she seemed really distressed. Harry preferred being the sympathising friend any day, especially if it meant patching things up between Ron and Hermione.

‘What’s happened? I thought things were great between you two.’

Hermione’s face fell from anger to misery in an instant, and Harry was once again reminded of the blond guy.

‘Well, they were. Things were really, really great. Nothing’s ever perfect, but Ron and I, we nearly were. We’d agreed about things for the future, you know. We made plans and were both happy about them. Ron had always said the Auror thing was temporary and that he would go work with George at the shop rather sooner than later.’

Harry nodded. That was definitely something he’d heard Ron say plenty of times. He didn’t know Ron was in such a hurry about it though, and Harry had always pictured it happening when they were well into their forties, but it no doubt was because they were partners and Ron didn’t know how Harry would react to it happening much sooner.

‘So we’d said... We had this agreement that the next time he’d end up at St. Mungo’s because of a case, we’d agreed that that would be the last, that he would stop then.’

Hermione’s hands were worrying the hem of her sleeves frantically, and her hair looked more dishevelled than it’d been in years. The last time Harry had seen Hermione so distraught, they’d been in a tent in the middle of nowhere, awaiting the next hypothetical lead on a hunt for Horcruxes. Given what her relationship with Ron had been back then, Harry almost didn’t want to know how bad his friend had screwed up now.

‘And today, today he was in St. Mungo’s again. Perhaps his injuries are not that bad, nothing that can’t be cured with the right wave of a wand, but you’ve got to understand, Harry. I was so worried. It was so long before they found you, before anyone told me anything. You got called in for what Ron assured me was an in-and-out case around nine, and the MLE only deigned Floo-calling after midnight.’

The lateness of the MLE’s actions made sense. If Ron and he were incapacitated as soon as they’d arrived, it would have first taken the Auror department time to realise something had gone wrong in what had otherwise seemed a pretty inoffensive case. Then they would have taken all the precautions necessary to make sure there was no risk for other Aurors to retrieve them. On top of that, you had to add the time of the actual rescue mission and of the St. Mungo’s diagnoses before the families were informed of anything. Honestly, given what Harry knew of the Auror department’s general efficiency, they’d actually been faster than what he would have expected, really. Perks of being the Chosen One, he figured.

‘So when I got here, I told Ron that that was it. It was time for him to quit the Aurors...’ Hermione sniffled, and Harry noticed that her eyes had gotten redder. Seeing Hermione cry was one of the most heart-breaking experiences Harry had ever had, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do if he knew it could keep the tears from falling. ‘He said he wouldn’t do it! He said he had work to do with the Aurors and that there was nothing to discuss! He said he didn’t try controlling my life, so I shouldn’t try controlling his!’

‘Maybe he just wants to find the robbery culprits before quitting?’ Harry hazarded, trying to make sense of what Hermione was telling him.

‘You really think so?’ Hermione asked, her voice now trembling.

Harry had no idea, really, and his best friend could be completely illogical when he was in a mood, but Hermione’s eyes were so hopeful and so bright that Harry said, ‘Yes. You know how Ron can be sometimes. He’ll be out of his funk in no time. He must be simply a bit disgruntled that these robbers got one over us so easily.’

Harry’s words didn’t have the comforting effect he’d wished they had though. Hermione looked down, sniffed some more, and finally said, ‘I’m not sure, Harry. I think… I think we broke up.’

~

Harry had been discharged and was told by Mediwitch Harper that they had had enough of him for a century and that he’d better not show his face there again anytime soon. It was hardly fair because none of Harry’s injuries were really his fault now, were they? She’d better tell that to Magical Britain’s special brand of criminals, if you asked him. Given how much she could scare the Saviour of the Wizarding World, it might even work.

He was now gathering the few of his belongings that had fallen out of his cloak pockets during the case and was managing to ignore the portrait above the bed depicting a middle-aged, round-cheeked Healer who had invaded the peaceful Scottish landscape and was insisting the state of his hair was a clear symptom of the early manifestation of a rare form of scrofungulus.

Harry picked up a folded embroidered handkerchief from the nightstand. It definitely wasn’t his, and it was way too nice and fancy to be something of Ron’s that might have been mixed up with his stuff. Harry sighed. If this was evidence from the robbery and had been mistakenly brought to St. Mungo’s with him instead of back to Auror quarters, Harry could completely sympathize with Ron’s unwillingness to leave the case in anyone else’s hands.

Except he couldn’t _actually_ sympathize with Ron. His entire being itched to go yell at Ron and ask him what the hell was wrong with him and couldn’t he see that Hermione was the woman of his life? But he knew that antagonizing his friend right now was _not_ a good idea, if he wanted to be able to do anything for them. He’d talk to Ron later, when he was able not to take sides and to listen to what Ron had to say for himself with a cooler head.

Ron and Hermione’s relationship had always had ups and downs of course, but the ups had always been pretty high up, and the downs only very rarely low enough for Harry to notice.

There’d been this one time when Ron had lived on Harry’s couch for one week. That was back when he and Ron were still in training and Hermione was still at the lowest position ladder-wise in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. But even then, with Harry feeling so awkward trying to juggle his time between Ron and Hermione evenly, they’d all known things would work out eventually. Hermione had been a little too jealous when learning Lavender Brown was temping as a secretary in the Auror department, Ron’d been kind of an insensitive prick, and some nasty things relating to sixth year had been shouted at each other, but they’d moved past this quickly enough, and Harry reckoned it had even made their relationship somewhat stronger.

Harry didn’t exactly remember what it was about sixth year that had been dwelled upon. Thinking about it now, there were a lot of things about sixth year Harry wasn’t too sure about anymore. The whole year felt kinda fuzzy in his head when he tried to focus on it, and he wondered how that could be when the years before didn’t suffer the same predicament. Or at least not to the same extent, because there _were_ things that seemed important but completely escaped his recalling.

Harry was really starting to get old if he couldn’t entirely remember the most eventful years of his life anymore.

~

Harry dropped by his house quickly to eat a bite and went directly to the Ministry to debrief the few things he remembered about the robbery. They hadn’t assigned another team of Aurors to the case yet, and Harry internally debated the idea of letting it drop so that Ron didn’t have a case either and decided that he could go back to Hermione, but forcing Ron to do anything was never a good idea. And if his best friend found this case so important that he would break the promise he made to Hermione, Harry was definitely interested.

Auror Williamson, Harry’s direct superior in the Auror office, was waiting for Harry in his small office, his enchanted raven-feathered quill already poised on the regulation parchment, ready for the debriefing. Williamson had stopped putting his feet up on his desk after being promoted head of squadron, but Harry knew there was nothing that could ever make him give up his impressively long ponytail.

‘So, Potter,’ Williamson said, his voice as gruff as ever and his eyes expertly trained on Harry. With an Auror like Williamson, they seldom needed Veritaserum; the guy could smell a lie from hundred yards away. ‘People at St. Mungo’s said you’d been Obliviated. Anything important you don’t remember?’

‘Apart from the whole evening, you mean?’ Harry asked wryly.

‘Don’t be a smartarse, Potter. If the spell’s messed with your abilities to be an Auror, I’d have to bench you, and you very well know how I would hate to do that. You may not remember anything useful concerning the robbery, but you’re still one of my best elements in this department.’

Harry wanted to answer no, that there was nothing important he didn’t remember, but then there were these large chunks of his Hogwarts years that had gone missing, and the leftover pasta he saw in his fridge but had no idea where it came from. Williamson saw the doubt in Harry’s eyes right away, of course, but there really was something about this case and this weird memory thing that it seemed too strange to let Ron deal with it by himself. Harry could afford being benched as much as the Auror department could.

‘Just a few things from Hogwarts, boss. But there’s no reason it’ll interfere with my job. And I’m pretty sure it’ll come back in no time.’ Or Harry hoped it would, at least.

Williamson didn’t seem completely convinced, but he had no reason not to believe Harry and no inclination to lose one of his Aurors on such pesky things as adolescent memories.

‘Very well, Potter. But first, I need a statement on the little you remember of what happened last night.’

There wasn’t much to recount, really. They’d been called in because the Museum’s wards had been triggered. They’d made sure there weren’t any untoward threats outside the building, went in, and then... nothing: Harry had woken up in St. Mungo’s and been assaulted by a very attractive blond man. Harry didn’t tell this exactly to Williamson, of course, but the gist of it. He didn’t even know what had been stolen, he now realised.

‘What about Ron? I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet. Did he have anything more to say?’ Harry asked. Ron _had_ to have witnessed something important enough for him to blow Hermione off.

‘Well, except that he got the chance to have been hit by only one curse instead of two, he was pretty much in the same state as you. Doesn’t remember anything about the night either.’

Harry was disappointed, but kept the hope that if _he_ asked Ron, maybe his friend would be more forthcoming. He was ready to get told to leave and go back healing or doing something useful for once when he remembered what was in his pocket.

‘I’ve found his handkerchief in my belongings back at St. Mungo’s, but I don’t believe it’s mine. Might have fallen from one of the thieves’ pockets,’ he said as an afterthought, sliding the handkerchief on Williamson’s desk.

Williamson narrowed his eyes at him, and Harry had the distinct prickly feeling that he’d just done something very stupid.

‘This is definitely yours, Potter. We’ve had the beta team scan everything on the scene, and the only magical signature on this was yours, or it wouldn’t have ended up in your things.’ Williamson paused and Harry tried to convince himself he was a good enough Occlumens for his boss not to call him on his lies right away. ‘I’m letting it go now, but you’d better not be bullshitting me about these memories of yours. Anything else fishy in your behaviour, _anything_ , and you’re on forced vacations for as long as I please, understood?’

Harry nodded and tried not to look too sheepish as he put the handkerchief back in his cloak’s pocket. Managing this weird memory loss and staying in his Auror squad at the same time was going to be tricky, and he had to do something about it. But first, he needed to speak to Ron.

~

Harry entered the cubicle he shared with Ron to find his partner searching intensely through a huge stack of files, his gaze more focused than Harry had ever witnessed it as far as paperwork was concerned. Harry was hesitating between relief that Ron was indeed seeing something in this case worth doing paperwork for (as well as worth fighting with Hermione) and worry that it was something too shady to tell Williamson.

‘You’d thought not remembering the case would exempt us from paperwork, right?’ Harry said as a greeting, not managing to take Ron’s attention away from his concentrated browsing.

Harry sat down at his desk as Ron kept on ignoring him and started browsing his own paperwork: an invitation to Hawkins’s retirement party, a note about the management change in the Magical Equipment Control Department, and the leftover paperwork from the assault case they’d wrapped up the day before. Nothing as fascinating as Ron’s appeared to be.

‘So, er... are you doing research for the case?’ Harry figured only the direct approach would make Ron acknowledge his presence.

‘Um, no,’ Ron hummed his answer and did not look up.

Ron’s behaviour was starting to get on Harry’s nerves, and he seriously itched to hex the git into telling him what the hell was wrong with him. If Ron was not telling him about what was so fascinating about a pile of parchment, Harry decided he didn’t need to take kid’s gloves about the Hermione situation.

‘What’s wrong with you and Hermione then?’ he asked, less carefully than he would have if Ron wasn’t being such a prick.

‘Nothing,’ Ron answered, the same dismissive tone still in place.

‘What do you mean, _nothing_? She told me you broke up with her!’ Harry exclaimed and regretted it right away. Their shared space was not an office but a _cubicle_ after all, and Sue Abercrombie was only three cubicles away, and the worst gossip the ministry had ever seen.

Ron looked up then though, so Harry at least managed that. Ron’s stare was harder than Harry had seen it directed at him for a long time. Harry hoped it meant there was something more to this story, something that justified Ron’s attitude and that was hopefully solvable.

‘I don’t want to talk about it, _Harry_ ,’ Ron said, his voice unwavering and a bit deeper than usual. He then looked back down to his files, and Harry expected his friend maybe to say more, to grumble and moan like he usually would, but the issue seemed to run deeper than Harry thought because a few seconds later, Ron breathed a _Ha!_ and got up, without saying another word.

‘Where’re you going?’ Harry asked, and he felt as though he was grasping at straws. There was something uncomfortable between Ron and him, something that became a little broken in Ron after his fight with Hermione. Harry had to wonder _exactly_ what happened in the museum that would make his best friend act this way.

‘I’ve got to go see Draco Malfoy,’ Ron answered simply as if he couldn’t hear the worry in Harry’s question.

Harry had no idea what this Draco Malfoy person had to do with anything, but through the confusion, he felt like he’d heard this name before. ‘Who? Is that... Is this Draco Malfoy related to Lucius Malfoy the Death Eater?’

This seemed to provoke something other than indifference in Ron at last, and it was with raised eyebrows and a smirk that his friend said, ‘ _Is he related to Lucius Malfoy?_ Ha ha! Good one, Harry. I’ll definitely remember this one!’

Ron was almost laughing when he left their cubicle, and Harry had no idea what just happened to change the mood so much. What was he missing? Could Lucius Malfoy be related to their case? The last time Harry had seen the bloke, it was just after the War, and Malfoy had been testifying against every ally he ever had in order to escape Azkaban. Harry could remember his face clearly, anguished and sunken and... The idea struck Harry almost painfully. Harry had no idea how he hadn’t realised it that morning, but the man who’d walked into his hospital room and kissed him so assuredly definitely looked very similar to Lucius Malfoy.

Between Ron’s strange behaviour and the guy’s certainty that they knew each other, it could not be a coincidence. Harry didn’t know if he actually was Draco Malfoy—and _who_ exactly this Draco Malfoy was—but he definitely needed to talk to him.

~

Draco Malfoy’s address wasn’t a hard one to find, and Harry wasn’t an Auror for nothing. From what he’d been able to dredge up, Draco Malfoy was indeed the son of Lucius Malfoy, had been a Death Eater himself during the War (which explained his use of the _Dark Lord_ epithet back at the hospital), and—this was where Harry’s interest got even more piqued—was at Hogwarts at the same time as Harry.

The problem was that Harry had no recollection of him at all. And even if the bloke hadn’t been an actual Death Eater—or as much of a Death Eater as a sixteen-year old could be—there was definitely something buzzing in Harry’s mind telling him there was no way someone as gorgeous as Draco Malfoy would have escaped Harry’s notice at Hogwarts. Even if Harry’s preferences hadn’t yet all manifested back then.

Most of the man’s past as a Death Eater was sealed, no doubt because he’d still been underage when he took the Mark, but his most recent history thankfully escaped such fate. Draco Malfoy had been entirely pardoned after a short probation period (seemingly without the need to rat anyone out like his father did) and was now a Ministry employee, in the same department as Harry even. All of this combined, there was _a lot_ the Ministry deemed important enough to put in his file.

Harry was at the front door of Draco Malfoy’s flat a few minutes later, and it only occurred to him then that he should have thought about this a little more before Apparating there. 

He was at the house of a former Dark Wizard who might or might not be linked to a museum robbery-turned-assault and who seemed as of that morning convinced that he shared a secret love affair with Harry. All of that with no preparation whatsoever. Harry hadn’t even any idea what he was going to _say_.

Harry was seriously thinking about bolting and coming back when he had a better plan when he heard the pop of an Apparition just behind him, and Harry didn’t have the time to think, to Disapparate, to do anything else before—

‘Harry?’

Harry turned to the sound of his name because it would be rude not to, and no, he was definitely not prepared for this. Draco Malfoy, who was indeed the same bloke from the hospital, was standing a few feet from him with a cautious smile and a hopeful look in his eyes. Harry had no idea how much stock to put in this secret love affair shtick, but if it wasn’t true, the man was certainly playing his role very well.

‘Er... Hello,’ Harry said, uninspired, and in one instant, Draco Malfoy’s face shut down completely and something a little bit like guilt clinched in Harry’s chest.

‘You still don’t remember me, do you?’ Malfoy asked glumly, his head bowed as he advanced past Harry and towards his front door, a hand fishing a key out of his pocket.

‘I don’t,’ Harry tried to say as plainly and honestly as he could. He wanted to say that he was sorry, too, but it felt not enough to alleviate the tension Harry could see in the back of Draco Malfoy’s shoulders as the man unlocked his door.

‘Come on in, then,’ Malfoy said as his door opened, without even a glance in Harry’s direction.

As expected, the inside of Draco Malfoy’s flat didn’t feel familiar, but Harry couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. Things would be so much easier if he could just remember the guy once and for all and stop feeling either like he was having his leg pulled by a delusional stalker or guilty as hell for not returning feelings he couldn’t remember.

The flat—or maybe was it a loft?—with its Victorian furniture and large picture windows overlooking the Thames, looked modern and antique at the same time, and the tidiness of the place matched Malfoy’s straight posture, well-kept hair, and expensive clothes perfectly. There was not one thing out of place there, and Harry felt kind of under-dressed.

By the time Harry had stopped gawking at the flat like an idiot, Malfoy had divested himself of his cloak and taken seat in a velvety armchair that must have cost as much as Harry’s entire living room.

‘I don’t think you’re here for small talk, so I won’t offer you a drink,’ Malfoy said simply, gesturing politely at Harry to sit.

Harry had forgotten everything he’d come here to do or say, so he took his cue and sat, trying not to ogle Malfoy too blatantly. The man _was_ beautiful with pale skin, fine hair, and delicate features, and perhaps a nose a bit too long for his face, which served to give him an imperial air Harry didn’t find unattractive at all.

Harry found himself wishing Malfoy _had_ offered him something to drink because he would have liked holding a cup of tea better than fidgeting with the hem of his robes while trying not to show how uncomfortable the man’s piercing gaze made him. It was quite obvious Malfoy wasn’t going to say anything though, and Harry had come there of his own free will; he had to cut to the chase one way or another.

‘I don’t know you,’ Harry said, levelling his gaze with Malfoy’s long enough to falter again.

Malfoy’s expression was blank, but his eyes shone with something that made Harry’s stomach turn into knots. Harry couldn’t begin to understand what it felt like to have someone other than Gilderoy Lockhart not remember you, someone you _cared_ about, and he spared a thought for Neville and the couple tucked away in St. Mungo’s Janus Thickey ward.

A wave of sadness wanted to overcome him, but he couldn’t really _do_ anything about any of it for now, so he ploughed on, ‘I feel like I _should_ know you though.’ He was looking at his hands now, failing not to appear as nervous as he felt. Coming here in the first place had been such a _bad_ idea. ‘And I feel like I _need_ to as well, considering all the blanks I’m drawing when I think back about Hogwarts. You were a big part of that, weren’t you?’

‘I may have been a considerable part of your teenage years, but I was in no way a good part, I can assure you,’ Malfoy answered with an unexpected apology in his tone. ‘What have the Healers said? Is there any chance to recover your memories?’

‘Look, I only realised I was missing these memories once I was already out of the hospital, and frankly, I’d rather this stayed between the two of us for now...’

‘What the hell, Harry?’ Malfoy’s interruption took Harry by surprise. His voice was suddenly louder and harsher, and his eyes spoke murder. Harry could see him trying to rein himself in, his knuckles white on the wooden armrest. ‘I know I can’t be angry at you for something you can’t remember,’ Malfoy said through gritted teeth, ‘but _this_ is exactly what caused the problem in the first place! You wanted to keep our relationship secret, and now it’s like it never even existed in the first place!’ Malfoy marked a pause, and Harry could see the rage on his face progressively morph into sorrow. ‘Before,’ he said, his voice trembling, ‘I could pretend _us_ was this sacred thing I could share with you. Now it could all be in my head, as far as anybody knows.’ It was Malfoy’s turn to look away, but Harry couldn’t take his eyes off him anymore. It was kind of surreal seeing someone act so vulnerable in front of what amounted to a stranger. ‘I’m tired of secrets, Harry.’

Harry didn’t know how to respond to that, and maybe Malfoy had a point, but the reason Harry had come here in the first place was the _case_ , not a hypothetical relationship he was still not entirely convinced he once had with Draco Malfoy. He refused to get guilt-tripped for something that might or might not be the product of Malfoy’s imagination.

‘Why did Ron come see you today?’ Harry was hoping on the question being out of the blue enough for Malfoy to answer without too many questions of his own.

‘Is that... Is that why you came here?’ Malfoy’s expression was so hurt, Harry almost relented in his inquisition, but he had to make the man understand that he wouldn’t have invaded someone’s home like this if it wasn’t _important_. And not least of all, Harry owed Malfoy the truth.

‘This case is the reason I got Obliviated, and there is something going on with this robbery, something important enough that it would make Ron break a promise to Hermione. I don’t know how much you know about Ron and Hermione, but for Ron to...’ Harry knew he wasn’t expressing himself most coherently, but he hoped the tumble of words spilling out of his mouth at least conveyed his honesty. ‘And he didn’t even tell _me_ anything either! The first thing he did was go find _you_. You, who showed up in my room at St. Mungo’s, and yes, this is all a big awful mess, but you’ve got to help me here!’

‘He just wanted access to one of the Ministry cells to talk to someone. I guess you don’t know that anymore, but I’m head guard there.’ Malfoy wasn’t looking at Harry while saying that, but he glanced at him as if he expected Harry to comment on his profession.

He knew about the judicial system reform that made culprits in wait of a definite sentence being incarcerated in the Ministry rather than sent to Azkaban right away, but had never stopped to ask himself what kind of people were working there.

‘Er, okay? Do you know whom he wanted to see?’ Harry asked uncertainly.

‘No, I don’t. He didn’t have the requisite paperwork, so I sent him on his way,’ Malfoy said absently, his gaze far away. He then seemed to shake himself slightly before going on with a wry smile, ‘You know, usually, when I tell people what I do for the first time, I always get a Dementor quip as a response. You used to...’ He trailed off, a small, wistful smile on his face, and Harry didn’t dare ask about it.

‘Look,’ Malfoy said, pulling himself together, his good humour fading away. ‘I’m afraid Weasley showing up at the cells was an awful coincidence, and I fail to see how this could help either you or your case...’

‘ _You_ could help, though,’ Harry cut him off. Malfoy obviously wanted to protest, but Harry went on, ‘If I want to work on this case without anyone suspecting I’m missing this big chunk of my memories, I’ll need...’ Harry knew what he was going to propose was all kinds of messed up and not a wise idea at all. If Hermione, who served as the little voice of reason inside Harry’s head most of the time, was there, she’d certainly ignite fire inside his skull with the force of her disapproval. ‘I’ll need someone to remind me of what I’ve forgotten. I don’t see anyone who’d be more suited to the task than you.’

‘You do realise that there is also no one who would be more biased about it than me, don’t you? I could tell you anything, and you wouldn’t have any other choice than believing me.’

‘I’ll just have to trust you, then,’ Harry replied confidently.

‘This is a very big trust to put in someone you have no proof you ever actually knew.’

Malfoy was skeptical, and he had reason to be, but Harry just shrugged and it made Malfoy smile. It was a very nice sight. Harry had never denied being reckless, and he wasn’t going to start now.

‘You’re a fool, Harry Potter. But you’re also a stubborn arse, and I know you enough to be aware that if I do the right thing and ask you to go to St. Mungo’s to get your memories restored instead of this nonsense, you won’t do it.’

‘You’ll help me, then?’ Harry asked, trying not to sound too eager.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but nodded. ‘I guess you could say that I’m a fool, too.’

Harry didn’t hold back on his grin, even if he knew it made him look a bit insane.

‘This is definitely going to come back to bite me in the arse, isn’t it?’ Malfoy’s voice was light, but Harry could sense the genuine worry beneath the playful tone.

‘You know, I do find you very attractive,’ Harry said, convinced complete honesty was the way to go, ‘and if this had been the first time we’d met—I mean the first time you met me too, I’d have certainly tried to ask you out. I’ve no doubt I would have failed though.’ Harry had to search his words for a little bit; he didn’t want to give false hopes or make promises he couldn’t keep. ‘I don’t know how our relationship was _before_ , and if... if I never get my memories back, you can, maybe... think of this as a second chance.’

This seemed to have the opposite effect of what Harry had wished though, because Malfoy’s face did this thing Harry had seen it do that morning in the hospital where it went totally blank instantly. Malfoy got up from his armchair significantly, and Harry understood it as the dismissal it was. He got up too.

‘This is a very nice sentiment,’ Malfoy said, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly. ‘And I’m not going to pretend our relationship was ideal—the secrecy alone was a large burden to bear and with our history...’ He seemed to get lost in thought a little bit then before shaking his head and going on, ‘But I’m sorry to say, you’re not the Harry I fell in love with. I can see him in you; I see him so much it hurts, but you’re not him, so don’t try to be, please.’

Harry had nothing to respond to that and Malfoy wouldn’t let him say anything anyway. Harry left the flat.

~

The following day was very long and very boring. The museum case was at a standstill. According to Ron, the lead he had wanted to pursue in the Ministry cells was a dead end, and he didn’t have enough evidence to get the authorisation to visit there anyway. Because they came from outside the Auror office, the expertise on the stolen artefact and on the curses Harry and Ron had been hit with still had a hundred hoops to jump through before landing on either of their desks, and Harry really wondered what was the point of magic when your life was still controlled by overbearing administrative rules.

As a result, Harry spent the day alternating between forcing himself to concentrate on his paperwork from former cases, trying to find ways to make Ron talk about what had happened with Hermione, and thinking about Draco Malfoy. As the paperwork was tedious and Ron was avoiding eye contact like the plague, by mid-morning, Draco Malfoy was Harry’s number one preoccupation.

Their conversation the previous night hadn’t ended all that well, but Harry was still hoping for an Owl telling him of a date and place they could meet to start this memory-reminding thingie. Before going to sleep, Harry had tried to differentiate in his mind what he didn’t remember because it’d been such a long time ago and what he couldn’t remember because it involved Malfoy.

The Battle of Hogwarts was an obvious one. Apparently, Malfoy had been an important component of the destruction of the Diadem Horcrux as well as of his final confrontation with Voldemort. Harry remembered doing it, but too many details were blurry for it to be normal. The fact that he could feel a headache starting every time he thought about it too much didn’t do anything to reassure him.

The earliest years were more difficult to apprehend. So much of what his eleven-year-old self did felt already like another life, it was difficult to even imagine a young Draco Malfoy taking part in it.

And, of course, sixth year was the biggest mystery of them all. Apart from little tidbits about Ron and Hermione and Ginny, Voldemort-related Pensieve trips, Snape’s potions book, and going Horcrux hunting with Dumbledore, the whole year felt more like a dream than something he actually lived. Harry seriously wondered how important Draco Malfoy had really been during his formative years, how much he had shaped who Harry was today—or at least who he was _supposed_ to be.

The next time Harry looked up from the mini Quidditch pitch he was doodling in the margin of an arrest report, Ron had left their cubicle.

Harry glanced at his wristwatch. It was past lunchtime, so Ron’s desertion wasn’t really a surprise, but it did hurt a little bit that avoiding Harry’s questioning about Hermione was so important that Ron would forgo their long-standing Greek food Thursday tradition. Harry was at a loss as what he could do to help his friends and was beginning to seriously question if there _was_ anything he could do about it.

Ron and Hermione were adults, after all, and Harry had his own troubles to take care of. He also couldn’t deny that his friends being preoccupied was the best thing he could wish for if he wanted to keep this whole memory loss a secret.

Maybe Ron would have kept it to himself, but Hermione would have found out soon enough, and there was no way _she_ wouldn’t have done the responsible thing. Given how uneventful his workday was so far, Harry almost wished he’d followed Malfoy’s advice and done the responsible thing, too. Being examined and questioned and poked at in St. Mungo’s and being put on forced leave by Williamson seemed way more interesting than the paperwork he was supposed to do now.

Harry was in the Department’s main corridor on his way to lunch when the bright green flyer found him. The pristine handwriting on it was Malfoy’s, who was asking him—no, actually, _telling_ him—that as he had free time for lunch, they could meet now to start talking about Malfoy’s “unpleasant childhood experiences,” as he put it. Harry grinned and hurried his pace.

He found Malfoy waiting for him in front of the Ministry cells’ aisle door, clothed in well-pressed and expensive dark robes, the Ministry guard insignia shining from where it was pinned on his chest. He was looking very handsome, and Harry needed to remind himself of their conversation the day before. Harry couldn’t _go there_ with someone who had feelings for him when he didn’t remember them. Merlin, was their situation screwed up.

‘Er... Hi,’ Harry said, as awkward as a human being could be.

Malfoy just rolled his eyes, looked pointedly in the direction of the exit, and declared, way more solemnly than the situation warranted, ‘We’ll have lunch at the Dragon Deli on the corner of Diagon and Knockturn. I’ll speak, and you’ll only ask questions directly related to my stories. Is that understood?’

They started walking as Malfoy laid out a few more ground rules that seemed to have the only purpose of keeping Harry from hitting on him. Harry took a bit offense because he was not _stupid_. He understood that he’d crossed a line, and he was really very sorry he did so. All he wanted now was for Malfoy to trust him (and maybe to smile at him again. Malfoy had a really nice smile).

Malfoy was at rule number four (Harry was to pay for any food or beverage they’d consume during what rule number two had qualified as their “sessions”) when they reached the lifts and found themselves face to face with Ron.

Malfoy tensed, and Ron’s eyebrows knitted instantly. There was definitely some history there, and it seemed crucial Harry knew about it as fast as possible. He hated feeling this out of the loop and hoped his sessions with Malfoy would remediate it rapidly.

‘Hey, Ron! Didn’t know you’d finished eating so quickly. I’m on my way to lunch myself. With Malfoy.’ Harry sounded unnatural to his own ears, and both Ron and Malfoy were now staring at him unbelievably. ‘So, er, yeah. We’re leaving, now. See you.’

Harry grabbed Malfoy’s arm and tried to pull him gently but firmly inside the ready-to-depart lift. It was only after they were out on the street and finally _alone_ , not pressed on all sides by throngs of hungry Ministry employees, that Harry noticed the gobsmacked expression hadn’t left Malfoy’s face.

‘Are you all right?’ Harry asked as they took a right turn towards Diagon. ‘Look, I’ll tell Ron we bumped into each other on our way out. He doesn’t know I don’t remember you, so if there’s bad blood between you two, you’ll have to tell me so that I can act accordingly...’

‘It’s not about there being bad blood between Weasley and me,’ Malfoy interrupted him with a hand clenching around Harry’s shoulder and steering him closer, his voice a furious whisper. ‘As far as _he_ knows—as far as _anyone_ knows—there is bad blood between _us_.’

Malfoy released his grip on Harry and went on with a more sedate tone, ‘When we were together... you... you didn’t want anyone to know about it, and there was this one time when we bumped into Ron and a few friends of yours in Muggle London. You were _so_... You made me hide, Harry. You put a Disillusionment charm on me as if I was a bloody child. I’d never felt so humiliated in my whole adult life. Our fight after that was _ugly_ ,’ Malfoy said, his lips pursing disgustedly on the last word, ‘and this was when...when I realised that you and I, that we were never really going to _be_ together. And I... I accepted it; I’ve learned to live with it, even. So, seeing you telling him so casually about us having lunch, that’s... I...’

Malfoy didn’t seem able to finish his sentence, and Harry didn’t want to force him to. He took advantage of their destination coming into view and changed the subject to lunch and to how bloody hungry not doing anything of his morning had made him. Malfoy didn’t say anything, but Harry noticed his grateful nod and felt something warm lodge deep inside his chest.

They sat at a little table tucked at the back of the sandwich shop. Malfoy ordered what looked like the fanciest sandwich a wizard could make while Harry settled for corned beef. He did miss Greek food Thursday quite a bit.

They waited for their sandwiches in silence for a little while, Harry fidgeting in his chair while Malfoy sipped calmly at his glass of water, his distress from before completely vanished.

‘Have we... been here together?’ Harry couldn’t help finally asking, taking in the quaint little eating area and its dragon-themed decorations.

Malfoy frowned and pursed his lips. Harry expected him to reproach him for breaking one of the rules, but he answered without more comment than a brief albeit impressive glare. ‘No, we did not. We only went to places we didn’t risk getting recognised. And if it’s all right with you, I’d rather not meet up anywhere romantically connected to us.’

As it turned out, Malfoy preferred not talking about anything romantically connected to them at all. This first session actually treated their first three years at Hogwarts, from meeting for the first time in Diagon Alley—Harry’s mind was kind of blown when he realised Malfoy was actually the first wizard his age he ever talked to—to the whole Buckbeak debacle in third year, which suddenly made way more sense now that Harry knew why Lucius Malfoy had wanted its head so much.

And as much as he’d warned Harry of the narrator’s bias, Harry had trouble actually finding any bias in Malfoy’s words. All he recounted were pure facts: where it happened, when it happened, what Malfoy had said, what Harry had answered. He never hinted at what he’d felt back then, let alone how he could guess Harry would have lived the various situations they’d been in. He didn’t even recount anything that Harry hadn’t completely been a part of.

It made the story colder, harsher, and the name-calling a hundred times worse. There was no doubt in Harry’s mind that the twelve-year-old Draco Malfoy who’d called Hermione a Mudblood was not the same person as the man sitting opposite him though, because as much as he wanted to appear detached about the whole thing, Harry could see the underlying guilt and regret in Malfoy’s eyes, and it was something he wanted to hold on to.

~

Harry was in a good mood when he came back to the Auror offices after what he was trying very hard not to refer to in his head as a lunch date. He was also trying really hard not to refer to the session Malfoy had programmed for that night as a date. He knew Malfoy wouldn’t like it and that it was highly inappropriate, even more so when you stopped to consider that all of the people in the stories that the Malfoy’s had considered friends were now either dead, in Azkaban, or exiled somewhere in Central Europe.

Despite everything, not thinking about it in a romantic light was a very hard thing to do when each story, as awful as they depicted young Malfoy to be, made Harry more and more certain of Malfoy’s truthfulness about their relationship. Also, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about how Malfoy would sometimes smile this secret smile when he thought Harry wasn’t looking.

Harry arrived at the cubicle he shared with Ron at the same time as his partner.

‘Are you only coming in now? I thought you were coming back here when we crossed paths earlier.’ Harry was trying not to sound too accusatory, but he was quickly becoming pretty tired of Ron’s bullcrap.

‘Hm, you know, administrative stuff...’ Ron said, avoiding Harry’s eyes shiftily. He was fidgeting uncharacteristically when he sat down at his desk, and frankly he couldn’t have looked more suspicious.

‘Was it administrative stuff related to you leaving the Aurors like you’d promised Hermione you would?’ Ron looked up at him with a deer-in-headlights expression Harry didn’t remember ever seeing on his friend’s face. But then again, Harry’s memories weren’t all that trustworthy these days.

‘You know you didn’t have to hide it from me then, right? And you still don’t have to hide it now,’ Harry went on. ‘As much as I’m thrilled at being able to have my best mate as my Auror partner, I’d rather you did what you want to do with your life. If Auroring isn’t for you anymore, then so be it. I’ve defeated Voldemort, you know, I think I’ll manage to survive changing partner.’

Ron had a more typical sheepish smile on his face now, and Harry felt like all the tension from this morning had evaporated. ‘You should totally tell Hermione, though,’ Harry added thoughtfully. ‘I think she’d be happy to know you’ve taken a decision.’

‘No, I can’t,’ Ron said hurriedly as if the prospect of facing Hermione now truly scared him. Harry knew she could be fierce and could easily imagine the fury she would rain on her boyfriend after the kind of stunt he’d pulled on her. ‘I... I, you know, with all this bloody paperwork? I’m not actually sure I can leave yet. My request hasn’t been, um, you know... processed, or something.’ Harry nodded. It wasn’t surprising him in the least after his own experience with the Ministry administration. The only thing they were fast at was getting them back on the job after an injury.

‘You don’t want to give her false hope, is that it?’

‘Yeah, exactly,’ Ron nodded fervently.

After that, the rest of the afternoon went pretty well. Ron was still preoccupied, so the atmosphere between them wasn’t exactly back to normal yet, but at least it kept him from asking unwanted questions about Harry having lunch with Malfoy. And, miracle of miracles, they actually were able to advance a bit on the case.

The British Wizarding Museum had sent them all of the info they had on the break in: how the thieves got in, which ward they triggered, and, more importantly, what exactly had been stolen. They were still waiting on the St. Mungo’s curse-experts to give them more information about the curses they had been hit with, but they could already make some progress on the robbery itself, if not the assault.

The problem was, given the information available, this case didn’t make sense _at all_.

The robbers had managed to disable and bypass very intricate high-level wards but had been tripped by a pretty basic one. The stolen artefact, well, couldn’t even be called an artefact really. It was an ornamental plate depicting ancient Egyptian wizards playing a flying carpet-based ball game. It had no monetary value, no magical properties, and Harry refused categorically to establish Egyptian sports fans as his primary suspects.

Even Ron, who was usually very good and very creative when they had to make sense of senseless evidence, was completely stumped by what they had so far.

It was very frustrating but not all that bad, because it meant Harry spent the rest of his workday reading about ancient Egyptian sports, and it was actually pretty entertaining. Harry would never have guessed that a game involving flying cats had actually once been suggested to the Muggles as an Olympic sport.

~

Harry had stopped by his flat to change before meeting Malfoy and had tried very hard not to put more thought than he should in the choice of his outfit. It was _not_ a date, no matter how attracted Harry was to Malfoy or how clearly reciprocated his feelings were. At the same time, Malfoy was always dressed immaculately, and Harry wanted actively to show that he wasn’t a complete hobo when out of his Auror uniform.

He also needed to make his palms stop sweating, because tonight’s session was going to be _serious_ —he knew they were going to tackle the years Voldemort came back—and he didn’t want to look like a lovesick child. His reflection in the nearest bar window told him that combing his hair hadn’t helped at all.

When Malfoy arrived—fashionably late—he didn’t need to say anything his mocking smirk hadn’t already expressed while taking Harry in. The fond glint in Malfoy’s eyes made making a fool of himself worth it though.

‘You got transfigured into a _ferret_?!’ Harry exclaimed thirty minutes later as he refrained from spitting his ale all over Malfoy’s white Muggle shirt.

Malfoy had the long-suffering expression of someone who’d been laughed at for this very thing too many times, and Harry could see it turning stormy.

‘I mean... you don’t just turn teenagers into _animals_! How come nobody noticed Moody wasn’t Moody right away then? It’s awfully dangerous and disrespectful, and it must have been _traumatising_!’

‘Well, I guess it was easier to believe somebody was acting a bit out of character than starting to believe a Death Eater had stolen their identity. And above all, most people seemed to believe, maybe rightfully so, that I deserved it.’ There was a bit of shame in Malfoy’s tone when he said that, but mostly, there was sadness.

‘You were really that bad, weren’t you?’ Harry asked softly.

‘What, in everything that I told you so far, could have given you the impression that I wasn’t, really?’ Malfoy was obviously trying to be light and playful about it, but it was breaking Harry’s heart to realise how much Malfoy seemed to believe this of himself.

‘Well,’ Harry said surely, wanting to make Malfoy understand how much he meant what he was going to say, ‘what this tells _me_ is that you’re the sort of person who manages to take all this awful baggage with him and to overcome it to become an impressively _good_ person.’

Malfoy didn’t say anything for a while, but the way he was cutting his meat was suddenly much more involved.

‘How disturbing is it,’ Malfoy finally said, his eyes fixed on his veal, ‘that the version of you that doesn’t remember me can be quite so perfect? I’m really not sure this makes me anything near a good person. You really shouldn’t be so nice to me. You don’t even know me.’

‘I know you,’ Harry said a bit too vehemently, making Malfoy as well as the couple sitting at the next table look up at him with raised eyebrows.

‘You don’t even remember meeting me, Harry,’ Malfoy pointed out very reasonably.

‘Maybe, but even without these memories, I know the now-you better than eleven-year-old me knew the eleven-year-old Draco, don’t I?’

And then, there it was: the thing that made it all make sense, the reason Harry preferred these sessions to whatever consequences making a St. Mungo’s healer take care of his memory problem would have—and really, in these circumstances, Harry didn’t really care about his memories all that much. Malfoy smiled.

They covered fifth year and the Inquisitorial Squad during dessert, but instead of continuing the story in the warm comfort of the restaurant, Malfoy suggested they took a walk along the Thames.

They passed three duck boats and two old ladies feeding pigeons before Malfoy talked again. Harry had filled the silence with chit chat about the nice weather and the intensity of Muggle tourism this time of year, but he could see the tension in Malfoy’s posture and the quiet pain in his expression.

Harry knew from what he’d read in Malfoy’s file that sixth year was the year he’d taken the Dark Mark and was willing to wait as long as it took for Malfoy to be ready to talk about it.

‘I know it’s very hypocritical of me, and I told you anything happening between us was out of the question, but I...’ Malfoy’s voice was feeble and hesitant, and despite the darkness of the night, he looked even paler than usual. ‘Just, before I say anything about sixth year, can you... would you agree to kiss me? Just a kiss, nothing else.’

Harry didn’t give Malfoy any time to change his mind. He’d subconsciously wanted to kiss Malfoy again ever since their first kiss at St. Mungo’s, and he wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass. He took Malfoy’s face between his palms and kissed him with all his might. 

He wanted this kiss to mean reassurance and safety and trust, he wanted it to be the best kiss Malfoy had ever received, the best one Harry had ever given, but he soon realised that he wasn’t controlling this kiss at all. He was only following lips and tongue and teeth, and the sensation of being sucked whole inside Draco, of being one with him. He could feel one of Draco’s hands buried in his hair and the other one gripping his hip tightly, and in this moment, Harry would have given anything to keep kissing Draco forever.

They were still holding each other when Draco finally detached his lips from Harry’s, and Harry found their embrace almost as intimate as the kiss itself.

‘I wish kissing you would never end,’ said Harry.

He was still a little dazed and didn’t realise right away what was happening when Draco leaned down to bury his face into Harry’s neck. ‘Are you... are you _laughing_?’ Harry asked disbelievingly when his brain finally caught on.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Draco was struggling to say between huffs of laughter, ‘but... seriously? “I wish kissing you would never end”? I’d managed for a short time to forget how _cheesy_ you could be, but I can see your memory lapse had no effect on that.’

‘Oi!’ Harry protested half-heartedly. ‘I’m not the one who theatrically asked for a kiss before I could pour my heart out. I may be _cheesy_ , as you say, but at least I’m not a complete drama queen!’

This made Draco laugh even more, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to get offended when he could feel the warm breath of Draco’s laughter against his skin.

They found a bench to sit on when Draco finally managed to get a grip on himself, and Harry couldn’t be more thankful of this more light-hearted interlude when Draco launched the sixth year story.

Sixth year had really been _ugly_. Between the nose-breaking and the Sectumsempra incident, Harry hadn’t thought it could get worse before it did. Despite his memories of the whole year being so blurry, he had remembered the Death Eaters entering the school, Dumbledore’s death, Ron’s poisoning. Realising Draco had been responsible for _all_ of this put a whole new perspective on what had happened that year.

They were still sitting on the bench, and Harry could acutely feel the warmth of Draco’s thigh against his. There was a light breeze that made the fine hair at the back of Draco’s neck flutter slightly, and Harry was taken by the sudden urge to card his fingers through it and feel how soft it was.

‘Look, I know you said just one kiss,’ Harry said after a while, ‘so I think we’d better wrap it up now because I really want to kiss you again right now.’

‘I see you’re keeping up with the cheesiness, Potter. Good for you, you’re consistent.’

‘It’s more about honesty than anything else, really,’ Harry said wryly. ‘I want you to know where I stand about this.’

There was a hand sliding on his thigh then making its way towards his own and a small smile on Draco’s face. ‘Remember when I said I was a fool, Potter? I can be very consistent, too.’

Draco got up, his hand holding Harry’s, and they began walking again, this time in the direction of Draco’s flat.

~

Draco talked about his seventh year in his bed with a naked Harry in his arms, and Harry knew it wasn’t just about lost memories anymore. Given the few interactions they’d had that year, there wouldn’t have been that much to say anyway, really, but Draco not only talked about what he did in the Battle of Hogwarts, he also told Harry what it was like to have Voldemort in his house and to be expected to torture his fellow students at school. Harry could tell it was quite therapeutic for him and was glad to be able to help, if only by listening.

‘And what happened to Draco Malfoy after the end of the War?’ Harry asked against Draco’s naked skin, his right arm wrapping slightly more tightly around Draco’s chest.

‘I’m not sure it is such a good idea to talk about that,’ Draco said with a sigh that made his chest rise under Harry’s cheek. ‘It might make things a bit... complicated. Especially if we intend to make this thing between us something more permanent.’

‘I see,’ Harry hummed thoughtfully. ‘It would be a little too close to expecting your new boyfriend to be like your old boyfriend, wouldn’t it? Except that I’m actually both of them.’

‘Our relationship was far from an exemplary one, Harry,’ Draco stated gravely. ‘You were actually very reluctant to even call it a relationship. We fought a lot. And it was in a large part my fault, too. The knowledge that we were together before is not enough for you to decide you want to pursue a relationship with me now.’

‘I don’t need to know we were together before to want to be with you,’ said Harry as earnestly as he could. ‘Having seen you naked sealed the deal, really.’ Harry joked, managing to make Draco huff a laugh. It was definitely something he could get used to, making Draco laugh. Harry looked up into Draco’s eyes and said more seriously, ‘I won’t make the same mistake twice, though. I’m not keeping us a secret from my friends anymore.’

‘That’s a very noble thought, but as much as I loathed it, you had your reasons for that, too. You were worried that your friends’ reaction wouldn’t be… ideal. And I never really insisted as much as I could have either because I didn’t want you to have to choose between me and them.’

Harry could hear the _I didn’t want you to have to choose them over me_ Draco didn’t dare say out loud. He couldn’t promise he wouldn’t have done it back then, but he could promise now that he wouldn’t ever allow anyone to _make_ him choose.

~

Harry was late at work the next morning. He’d had to stop by his flat to get his Auror robes and had also taken the time to send an owl to Hermione to ask her to have lunch with him. Ron wasn’t in their cubicle when he arrived, but a pile of parchment describing the nature, class, and legal status of the spells used to curse them at the museum had been dumped on Harry’s desk, so he got started on his work right away.

The only thing worth noting in the pile of useless blathering the curse specialists had done in their overly scratchy handwriting was that no known magical signature—except Ron’s and Harry’s—had been found on site, and that there had also been a lot of parasite signatures that made the readings unreliable because of the public nature of the museum. All it meant was that, basically, the robbers were going to be even harder to find than they already were.

When Ron arrived fifteen minutes later, he had a cup of coffee in each hand and a sour look on his face. He didn’t hand any of the coffees to Harry, though. Ron had always been a greedy bastard where coffee was concerned, but his break-up with Hermione seemed to have multiplied his need to stay awake by ten.

‘Are you all right, mate?’ Harry asked, genuinely concerned.

‘Yeah, yeah… it’s just, you know, this fucking administrative shit...’ Ron said between gritted teeth. Harry knew Mrs Weasley had always been very strict with the swearing and reckoned Ron must be _very_ pissed off with the Ministry administration to swear like this.

Harry decided he would tell Ron about his relationship with Draco when his friend was in a better mood. He might be a bit more confident than Draco thought he should be concerning his friends’ reactions, but it didn’t mean he had to tempt fate.

‘I’m having lunch with Hermione later,’ Harry said a bit too casually to be natural. ‘If you want to, you could join us...’ He finished hopefully, trying to sip nonchalantly at the coffee Ron had handed him and getting what was no doubt a third-degree burn on the tip of his tongue.

Ron looked up from the files Harry had copied for him with a frightened look on his face. His mouth was hanging slightly open, and he seemed to be at a complete loss for words.

‘Not yet?’ Harry asked knowingly. The last time Ron and Hermione had fought so seriously, it’d taken them a few days to actually get together again even when their problem had already been as good as resolved. He didn’t want to press the matter if Ron wasn’t ready.

‘Not yet,’ Ron repeated with a nod and resumed his dispassionate reading of the particulars of the modified Stunning spell he’d been hit with.

They spent the rest of the morning not saying much. Ron concentrated on his reading and on finding excuses not to do it, and Harry stressed in advance about what he would tell Hermione and how he would say it.

~

‘I’m seeing Draco Malfoy. Romantically,’ was what Harry finally settled on telling Hermione. It was also the first thing he’d said when joining her at their usual table at the Leaky, and it made her eyebrows hide way up into her bushy fringe.

‘Hello to you, too,’ she answered flatly. ‘Now, if we’re going to have this kind of conversation, I think I will need something a bit stronger,’ she said, pointing to the glass of water in front of her.

It wasn’t until Hannah had floated a half pint of light beer in front of her (she _was_ supposed to go back to work in the afternoon, after all) that Hermione deigned getting back on topic.

‘So, you’re seeing Draco Malfoy. Romantically,’ she repeated his words at him as though she wasn’t entirely sure she’d understood them correctly. Harry nodded.

It was a bit like being at an oral examination and having the teacher casting doubt on what you knew was the right answer on purpose for no other reason than making you second-guess yourself. Given her successful career as a Wizarding Law representative used to prosecuting the most powerful wizards for ill treatment of magical creatures, it was something she was clearly very gifted at.

‘And how long exactly has this been going on?’ she asked neutrally, making Harry not sure whether this was an accusation or not.

‘Er, one day... and a half,’ Harry added hurriedly at Hermione’s unimpressed expression.

‘Oh, so it’s not really serious, then?’ There was definitely relief in her voice and maybe a bit of apprehension, and Harry didn’t really know what to make of it.

‘No, it is. It really is. I know that we’re not... that he...’ What exactly were the words Draco had used again? Oh, yes, ‘I know there is _bad blood_ between us, but he’s changed a lot since Hogwarts _obviously_ , and he’s charming and quite lovely, really—but don’t tell him I called him _lovely_. He already thinks I’m cheesy as it is.’ Harry was rambling, and Hermione kept looking utterly nonplussed and maybe even a bit worried about his mental health.

‘Don’t you think it’s all happening awfully fast, though? When was the last time you’d talked to him before suddenly deciding everything that ever happened between you two didn’t matter anymore and that he was the man of your life?’

‘Well, it was...’

Harry didn’t know how to respond to this one, but Hermione didn’t let him anyway as she interrupted him right away, ‘Oh my God, Harry! I actually expected you to at least deny the _man of your life_ part! What on earth happened to you? You realise we’re actually talking about _Malfoy_?’ She was talking quickly and almost as vehemently as she did when presenting S.P.E.W. to someone unfamiliar with it. ‘And yes, I know very well he’s been pardoned and is officially working for the Ministry and blah, blah, _blah_ , but what about Bath?’

Harry had no idea what she was talking about, and knew very well she could see it on his face as clear as crystal. ‘Er, what about Bath?’ he repeated sheepishly.

‘Harry...’ She said lowly, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘You’d better have a good explanation for what is happening right now because there definitely is something wrong with you, and I demand to know what it is.’

So yeah, perhaps Harry hadn’t completely thought this through. ‘So, er, remember the museum robbery?’

Hermione nodded for him to continue, her eyes fixed on Harry like a hawk’s, her fingers almost white; they were gripping her glass so tightly. She was glaring at him with all her might, and Harry couldn’t believe he’d never realised how utterly _fascinating_ his own hands could be.

‘So when I got Obliviated, something happened with the spell, and... it actually made me forget Draco Malfoy altogether.’ He glanced up at Hermione just long enough to see her glare turn from furious to absolutely murderous.

‘Harry James Potter,’ she said, her eerily calm voice expressing ten times more anger than a shout could have. ‘Do you even realise how _dangerous_ the situation you got yourself into could have been?’

‘Draco’s not dangerous!’ Harry protested loudly.

‘How can you say that when you don’t even remember what happened in Bath? When you don’t remember anything, really.’

‘He told me everything about our Hogwarts years, Hermione. And he didn’t sugarcoat any of it. He didn’t try to make himself look good or anything. And I got to know a fair bit about who he is now, too,’ Harry explained. She had got to see it. She had to understand that not having memories didn’t mean not having _feelings_.

‘I don’t want to tell you to do anything you don’t want to, Harry, but...’ She bit her lower lip lightly, and Harry could see she was genuine, that she wanted him to be happy but couldn’t help worrying. ‘Malfoy’s the most Slytherin person I’ve ever known. And this selective Obliviate you got hit with? I’ve never seen anything like this and couldn’t begin to comprehend it, but from where I’m standing, there is only one person who seems to profit of your forgetting Draco Malfoy...’

Harry couldn’t believe what she was suggesting. It was one thing to disapprove of his relationship but to outright accuse Draco of... And it didn’t even make sense! Well, it made a little sense, but Harry was appalled that the brain of the smartest witch of their age could concoct a theory lacking so much in basic common sense.

Draco had been adamant about nothing happening between them. Hell, he hadn’t even wanted to help him fill the gaps in his memories in the first place! He’d been insistent that Harry had to go to St. Mungo’s and get his memories fixed there. He would have acted nothing like that if he’d been responsible for is whole thing, now would he?

‘No,’ Harry stated with as much calm as he could muster. ‘I’m sorry, Hermione, but you’re wrong. You’re terribly, terribly wrong. Draco has nothing to do with that. I would know if he had; I assure you I would.’ And maybe Harry insisted a bit too much for someone so confident, but he couldn’t let himself consider otherwise.

‘All right, Harry,’ Hermione said after a beat, uncertainty written all over her face. ‘If you’re so certain, I’ll trust your judgement, then.’

Harry nodded gratefully, and she let her mouth form a small smile. Her brows were still knitted, and Harry knew he hadn’t really managed to change her mind, not really. Harry chose to call it a victory nonetheless.

~

The room of the British Museum where the robbery and assault had happened had been warded and forbidden to the public, but it didn’t keep visitors from gawking at working Aurors from beyond the barrier rope that had been put up by the museum staff.

Harry hated being gawked at in general, hated it even more when he was working, and absolutely _loathed_ it when he was trying to announce to his best friend that he was dating their childhood nemesis.

He’d expected Hermione to be the reasonable one and Ron to be the sanguine one, so, given what Hermione’s reaction had actually been, he didn’t like his chances of survival with Ron’s.

Coming back to the scene of the robbery seemed as useless as anything they’d done so far, and Harry was quickly getting frustrated with this whole case. They found no clue whatsoever in the room the Egyptian plate had been in, and because the extraction team had determined the robbers had taken the Muggle way out, they now had to search the Muggle parts of the museum for clues.

It was absolutely tedious. They had to stay Disillusioned the whole time and could only perform the scanning spells they usually used to find magical residue when no Muggle was around. Since the thieves had taken a route through some of the most popular rooms of the highly frequented British Museum, it took Ron and Harry the whole afternoon.

As a result, it was already getting dark outside when they reached the back alley the robbers had used to Disapparate away, and Harry was in such a bad mood he didn’t really see the point in delaying his conversation with Ron anymore.

‘So,’ Harry said firmly to Ron’s back as his friend idly waved his wand at a dirty piece of wall. ‘I don’t know if you’ve wondered about me going to lunch with Draco Malfoy the other day...’

Ron only grunted a response, so Harry took it as a sign to continue. ‘Actually, I’m going to do that pretty frequently from now on because we’re actually, er... dating.’ Harry finished, a bit unsettled by Ron’s lack of response.

Ron turned to him with squinted eyes and said with a somewhat befuddled look on his face, ‘Who’s dating who?’

‘Er, me. And Draco... Malfoy,’ Harry felt obliged to specify when the confused look didn’t leave Ron’s face right away.

It seemed to take a few seconds for it to click inside Ron’s brain, and when it did, his friend’s handsome face turned ugly with disgust. ‘Ew, Harry. I didn’t take you for a poof!’

Harry could almost physically feel the word _poof_ pierce his chest.

‘What?’ Harry croaked, feeling the word getting stuck in his throat. This had to be some kind of sick joke. Merlin knew Ron’s sense of humour could sometimes be questionable at best. ‘You’re not serious,’ Harry managed to say more clearly. ‘You’ve known I was bisexual for _years_ , Ron.’

This statement seemed to make Ron hesitate for a beat, but he was as serious as ever when he spoke again, ‘There’s a big difference between saying you’re bisexual when your only serious relationship ever was with a woman and deciding to be all lovey-dovey with another bloke. That’s not natural.’

Harry was at a complete loss for words. He felt like he’d fallen into an alternate dimension where Ron had changed into a complete arsehole, but there was also a little voice in his head telling him Ron had always been a little bit of an arse. Hermione herself had even recently called him a wanker, and his past experiences should have taught him never to take anything for granted.

‘But...’ Harry managed to stutter through the feeling of asphyxiation that was slowly invading his lungs. ‘What about... What about your brother? What about Charlie?’

‘Well,’ Ron answered with a sneer, ‘every family’s got to have their freak, right?’

He left the alleyway then, leaving Harry alone and fighting tears, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Everything was wrong, and Harry was suddenly overcome by a wave of regret of not having punched Ron right on the nose. He violently kicked one of the huge trashcans he was supposed to investigate and cursed this decision right away as his foot chose this moment to remind him that it was not made of iron and kicking a metal object that hard was excessively painful.

He heard the sound of garbage spilling out of the can through his cursing and decided Ron’s dickishness wasn’t worth littering the Muggle word. He poured all his anger in picking up the trash manually, imagining Ron’s face on each piece of rubbish before throwing it in the can with a heartfelt viciousness.

It was then that the most surreal thing of the whole day happened—even more surreal than Hermione accusing Draco of Obliviating Harry and Ron insulting him. Amidst the empty styrofoam cups and sandwich packages, Harry found a very nice, albeit a bit damaged, ornate plate decorated with a painting of bearded wizards on flying carpets throwing each other nice red balls. A _moving_ painting, more accurately.

~

Finding a crucial evidence for an ongoing investigation at the end of your shift meant staying after hours, and by the time Harry finally made Williamson accept that he had no explanation for why thieves who took the risk of injuring Aurors and got away with it had found it necessary to get rid of their loot, it was already past eight and Harry was knackered.

Maybe the robbers got scared, maybe they’d only done it for the thrill of the chase. Maybe they’d realised the bloody plate was absolutely useless. Harry didn’t really care. He was starving and emotionally drained, and all he wanted was going back to Draco’s, eat, and, if he was amenable, have maybe a comfort shag or two before sleeping as long as he could on Draco’s obscenely expensive, imported Himalayan mattress.

When Harry arrived at his flat, Draco was reading by the fire with a glass of red wine on the console table next to his elbow. He looked up at the sound of the Floo and took in Harry’s miserable state right away.

‘I take it didn’t go well with your friends, then,’ he said as he got up to divest Harry of his cloak.

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Harry answered morosely. ‘Between the one who was convinced you were responsible for my memory loss in the first place and the one who turns out to be a raging homophobe, I wouldn’t say it went well, no.’

‘Really? I’d never expected someone has enlightened as Hermione to have any problems with alternative sexualities,’ Draco said doubtfully.

He extended his glass to Harry, who took a big gulp before answering, ‘No, it’s not... Why would you think the homophobe was Hermione? It’s _Ron_ who called me a poof and seems to think his own brother is a freak.’ Draco might not know Harry’s friends very well, but he’d been right in advising to be cautious when telling them about their relationship.

‘Are you sure? That really doesn’t sound like Weasley.’

‘Well, it sounded like him when he said it to my face,’ Harry concluded. He really didn’t want to talk about this frightful day anymore. He put down the glass of wine and kissed Draco. Harry didn’t really care about eating anymore; he was really ready to go to bed now.

~

Harry woke up to the sound of his on-call amulet singing the Weird Sisters’ version of _Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go_ , reminding Harry at once how he sometimes hated his job very much. Draco groaned beside him and had every right to: a quick time charm indicated it was half past three in the morning.

The call was a complaint about sleep disturbance, and Harry really wasn’t in the mood for a petty neighbour’s strife. At least he could be thankful it was not serious enough a case to warrant the presence of his partner. In the state he was in, he couldn’t guarantee not using an Unforgivable on Ron if he saw him now. He kissed Draco on the cheek, got up, grabbed his glasses, and put his Auror robes back on before Apparating straight to the address his amulet mentioned.

It was only once he was in front of the building that he realised he actually knew the place. He usually went there directly by Floo, so the address hadn’t rung a bell, but once there, there was no mistake. And because Harry was cursed since birth, he found himself working a middle-of-the-night case in Ron and Hermione’s building.

Harry made his way slowly to the caller’s flat, praying to whomever would listen for it to be far, far away from his friends’. And the closer he got, the less likely his wish seemed to get granted and the more he had to remind himself that things had not ended in a completely bad note with Hermione and that Ron wasn’t living there presently anyway. He could do this. He could totally do this.

This was becoming a mantra as he reached his friends’ floor and could actually start to hear the ruckus that had brought him here. It was a mix of flapping, banging, and crashing, and was loud enough for Harry—miffed as he was at getting called out at three bloody a.m.—to admit that a call to the Aurors had been completely justified.

Ron and Hermione’s neighbour was standing in her doorframe wearing her nightie with a night hat on her head and a worried look on her face.

‘Hello,’ Harry greeted with his best Auror-voice. ‘You’ve called the Aurors about the noise, Madam?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s been going on for _hours_. I’ve tried knocking on their door several times, but there’s been no answer. I don’t want to cause them trouble. They’re very good neighbours, nice and polite, and the lady is very proper, but I haven’t been able to get a wink of sleep, and I’ve got a very important meeting tomorrow morning.’

‘Don’t worry, Madam, you’ve done well,’ Harry said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He was actually glad she’d called because the sounds he heard were making him gradually more alarmed, and he couldn’t help but dread the worst.

‘Hermione! Hermione!’ Harry called as he pounded on the door, attempting to keep his voice from shaking.

There was no answer, and Harry could hear the blood pumping inside his head even through the uproar coming from the flat. He took out his wand as firmly as he could and unlocked the door. Whatever he would find behind it, at least it was him who’d find it. At least the wards were attuned to him and he wouldn’t have to break the door.

The door swung open. Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Despite the amplified noise, he distinctly heard the neighbour’s gasp before opening his eyes again.

The flat was absolutely ravaged. Veruca, Hermione’s golden-feathered owl had escaped from her cage and was flying around in a daze, banging against pieces of furniture every so often and making books and trinkets alike crash to the floor. Seeing people made her hoot loudly, and she swooped down on Harry with a high-pitched cry.

Harry caught her in his arms and noticed right away that a whole part of her left wing’s feathers had been singed black.

‘What on earth happened in here?’ the neighbour asked under her breath. It was a very valid question because the damage made to the carpets and walls and furniture had clearly not all been Veruca’s doing. There were clear signs of struggle everywhere in the living room and kitchen.

And while Harry felt completely dumbstruck by the mere idea that something could have happened to Hermione, Harry’s Auror-brain was working on full force. Someone must have intruded in Hermione’s home. She’d fought back but had eventually been taken away, leaving Veruca injured and hungry and bereft of the usual flight over London Hermione let her have every night.

‘Auror Potter?’ the neighbour was saying somewhere next to him. ‘Should I... er, should I call reinforcements?’

‘Yes, yes, you do that,’ Harry answered absently. It wasn’t procedure, but he needed just a few moments alone, so he could get a grip on himself and get ready to start working on making whoever hurt Hermione _pay_. ‘Oh, and tell them to call Auror Weasley, too. He needs to know about this.’

~

It didn’t take long for the night staff to arrive en masse, and soon the curse experts were casting in every direction, scanning and detecting and analyzing every bit of magic that had been done in there for the last week.

The head of squadron on call had taken Harry aside to gather his assessment of the situation, and Harry was talking to her in the kitchen and listening to the buzz in the living room at the same time, trying to make any kind of sense of what was happening.

‘Has Ron arrived?’ he asked when he sensed the other Auror—Harry was supposed to know her name, he knew he was—was about to dismiss him.

It was only then that he realised he was still holding Veruca in his arms, and that the pain in his bicep wasn’t a physical manifestation of his distress, but the owl pecking at him to let her go.

The Auror—Wiggins, Higgins, Jiggins?—didn’t answer him. Ron might be the biggest prick alive, but he had to know. He had to be made aware that Hermione, that she... Harry couldn’t begin to understand what it must feel like to be in his position and felt a sudden empathy for what Hermione must be living through every time they got injured during missions.

Harry remembered an alarmed Draco bursting into his hospital room, a stricken expression on his face.

‘We’ve got something, Sir,’ one of the experts called out to Biggins—yes, it was Biggins, wasn’t it? Harry straightened himself and followed her to the other room.

‘There’s a match between one of the signatures and a name in our files, Madam,’ the expert was saying.

‘Well, give it to me,’ Biggins said gruffly. ‘We haven’t got all night.’

Harry took a glance at the parchment the expert was handing to Biggins and his heart stopped. If he hadn’t actually already experienced it, Harry would have sworn that in this exact instant, he had died for a few seconds.

On the parchment, a photographic representation of Draco Malfoy was staring disinterestedly back at him.

~

Half an hour later, Draco Malfoy was in one of the Auror quarters’ interrogation room, and Harry wanted to throw up.

 _How could I’ve been so stupid?_ The question was on infinite repeat in his head. Draco was looking at him worriedly, the picture of innocence.

‘Your magical signature has been found in the home of Hermione Jean Granger. For the record, can you tell us where you were earlier this night between eleven p.m. and one a.m.?’ Harry could hear his own voice saying. It didn’t really feel like it was him saying it, and he knew Draco could sense his distress.

_How could I’ve been so stupid?_

‘I...’ Draco started, before glancing at the enchanted window that he knew was hiding Harry’s superior and a few of his colleagues. ‘I _have_ been to see her after you fell asleep,’ Draco admitted, and Harry could feel the last thread of hope in his heart tear.

Draco was looking him in the eyes, the wonderful Slytherin that he was. He’d obviously chosen to address _Harry_ , rather than _Auror Potter_. He knew exactly what he was doing.

‘I have been to her place, but I did _not_ hurt her. She was absolutely intact when I left, I swear. I only wanted to talk to her.’

‘What did you want to talk to her about, Draco? Did you want to discuss how she’d found your secret out?’

‘My secret...? I don’t know what...’ Malfoy was playing the confused man perfectly; it was a shame he hadn’t been able to go into acting professionally.

‘She found out that you were responsible for Obliviating me, didn’t she? I’d told you as much after all. Except I didn’t believe it was the truth.’

Had Draco ever said anything that wasn’t a lie? Had it all been a plot to seduce and humiliate Harry?

‘What? Why would have I done that, Harry? And how? You don’t actually believe that...’

‘I’m tired of you telling me what I should believe,’ Harry cut him off again. ‘There was no actual theft at the museum, Draco. The plate didn’t go further than the back-alley dumpster. The only actual effect this whole thing had was on my memory, and as Hermione had pointed it out, you’re the only one profiting of the crime.’

‘No, that’s not it, Harry, that’s not it at all! You’ve got to believe me! I went to see Hermione to talk to her about _Ron_.’

‘What does Ron have to do with any of this?’

‘I don’t know!’ Draco cried out desperately. ‘It was about what you said about him being a homophobe. I, actually, before we got together the first time, I bumped into him at the Leaky once, and he was totally pissed and he was blathering about how proud he was of you for coming out and of his brother. He’s your friend, and he’s not a homophobe, and there is something very _wrong_ with him, and I wanted Hermione to know about it...’

‘How convenient that nobody can actually corroborate your story,’ Harry said flatly.

‘It was not only that!’ Draco hurried to say. ‘He spent an overly large amount of time trying to get access to the Ministry cells, too! There are at least five people working there with me that can attest to it. He was there right after coming back from St. Mungo’s and that first time we had lunch, and... nobody found it suspicious because he’s an Auror, but even an Auror has nothing to do there _that_ often.’

‘Well, you’ll be able to keep an eye on him while we’re analysing your wand, then.’ Harry concluded and started for the door.

‘Please, Harry!’ Draco cried out. Harry had never thought he would ever hear him beg. ‘You’ve got to believe me, please.’

‘Tell me, Draco. What exactly happened in Bath, and why didn’t you tell me about it?’

Draco’s mouth shut down instantly and his face closed off completely at that. Harry wasn’t sure he even still wanted to know what had gone on in Bath. If Hermione had been right about one thing, there was no reason she hadn’t been right about the rest.

Harry left the room, torn between hating himself for having trusted Draco so easily and for still wanting to believe in him so badly.

~

Harry spent the remainder of the night in his cubicle hunched over the whole museum case paperwork, trying to find something, _anything_ , that would be able to tell him definitely whether Draco had been involved in it or not.

He’d finished his seventh cup of coffee and had come back from his fifth bathroom break, and there was still absolutely nothing new. He’d thought that if he knew what he was looking for, the reports and the analyses were finally going to make sense, but all it did was confuse Harry even more.

Whoever was behind this robbery was bloody _good_ at covering their tracks, and Harry was thankful they hadn’t been advising Voldemort way back when.

Harry was scanning the original incident report for the umpteenth time when he noticed something that had come to his attention before, but he hadn’t put too much importance into it.

Back in the hospital, Hermione had been insistent that the Ministry had taken way too long to inform her about the assault, but Harry had done the math: given their usual speed and the details of the case, they had actually been abnormally _fast_. Which actually went against everything Harry knew and loathed about the Ministry’s administration.

The point being, Harry must have missed something, something that had accelerated the Ministry’s usually very slow process. Harry being the Saviour or whatever wasn’t enough for this kind of increased efficiency. He went through the folder again and... there it was. A little flyer had been attached to the usual Auror paperwork: it was a typical inter-office memo coming straight from the Ministry reception and informing them that a stag-shaped Patronus had arrived in the Ministry hall message-less and that maybe they should do something about rogue Patronuses distracting the ground floor staff.

Harry had actually been able to produce a Patronus before getting cursed but hadn’t been able to actually transmit a message. He had no idea what it might mean but made a note to ask the curse specialists anyway. Something in his guts was screaming at him that it was important, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.

Biggins passed by Harry’s cubicle just as the charmed windows made the first morning sunrays piercing through the dark night clouds, and Harry took the opportunity to call after her, ‘Has Ron been told about what happened to Hermione, madam? I’d have expected him to come straight to the offices.’

‘Well, _I_ would expect him not to. It’s his girlfriend who’s been abducted, Potter. He’s got nothing to do here as an Auror for fear of compromising the mission. He has been instructed to stay at home as long as we haven’t found her.’

‘And he’s just... accepted that?’ Staying at home sitting on his arse was the last thing Harry expected Ron to do in this kind of situation.

‘Some people actually know how to follow orders, Potter. Or do you want me to tell Williamson about this Obliviation problem of yours?’

‘Er, no, that’s all right, madam,’ Harry replied quickly. If Ron wasn’t going to come to work, there was no way Harry would let himself be sent back home.

Biggins left, and Harry plunged back into his files but didn’t actually manage to get his mind into it. Why would Ron accept to be benched so easily? Was he working on something by himself? Harry was getting more and more confused by his best friend’s attitude and couldn’t stop thinking about what Draco had said about him.

But Draco had to be lying, he had to. He’d sneaked out in the middle of the night, and Hermione had been kidnapped. How could he have been telling the truth?

Harry was distracted from his musings by the arrival of a familiar owl in his cubicle. There was only Neville’s owl to find him wherever, even when he was so uncharacteristically in the office at six a.m. on a Saturday morning.

Harry fished a treat from where he kept them in the top drawer of his desk to give Augustus and decided that reading Neville’s weekly letter was as good as a mood lifter as he could get in such dire circumstances.

He started to read about Hannah, about Neville’s students and what Hagrid got up to, about life at Hogwarts and Neville’s botanical research, but the next paragraph made him freeze.

In Neville’s neat handwriting, black ink on yellow parchment, a few sentences changed _everything_.

_“How is Draco? I’m glad you and him are not fighting as much as you used to. You should really tell Ron and Hermione about your relationship though. It’s not fair for them not to know something so important about your life, for Draco to be kept hidden away forever, and for you to have to carry such an unnecessary burden.”_

Harry had told Neville about him and Draco. Harry had _written_ about it. Harry pulled open the drawer where he kept his private correspondence and found two, three of the letters Neville had written him in the last month. And each one of them mentioned Draco and their relationship and how much of a moron Harry had been about it.

Draco had been telling the truth about their relationship, and Ron wasn’t coming to work despite _Hermione_ having been abducted. The first thing he’d done when coming back from the museum had been fight with her. He even broke up with her. This wasn’t Ron. This wasn’t him. Ron loved Hermione more than anything in the world; this was his most defining personality trait.

_It was easier to believe somebody was acting a bit out of character than starting believing a Death Eater had stolen their identity._

Harry didn’t know if it was a Death Eater who’d stolen Ron’s identity, but whoever it was, Harry had to do something about it, and quick, before the impostor hurt Hermione more than he already had.

~

Harry didn’t actually know where “Ron” had been staying since he’d left Hermione, but he knew of one place where he liked to spend a _lot_ of time. And he didn’t have to spend more than a couple of hours Disillusioned in front of the Ministry cells’ entrance before fake-Ron showed up.

He exchanged words with the Ministry employee who was working the front desk today, even shouted a little, and finally walked away, his scarlet Auror robes billowing behind him and a stormy expression on his face.

Harry got it now, the administrative procedures fake-Ron had been complaining about. It hadn’t been about leaving and honouring his promise to Hermione at all but more about the debilitating inaccessibility of the Ministry cells when you didn’t have the appropriate paperwork. Harry could constantly moan about the Ministry’s administration as well as the next bloke, but for once he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

Harry followed fake-Ron into an alleyway usually used by Ministry workers to Apparate to work and expected to have to find a way to track his Apparition’s destination when fake-Ron took a few turns instead and hurried into an even tinier alley that was serving as a discharge route for an old and abandoned warehouse.

Fake-Ron slipped through one of the warehouse’s doors, and Harry managed to catch it before it closed and got in behind him. The place was dirty and clearly disused for a long while. Whatever fake-Ron was using it for, it obviously hadn’t warranted a bit of spring-cleaning beforehand.

Harry checked that his Disillusionment charm was still in place—he should really start carrying his Invisibility cloak everywhere again—and followed fake-Ron in a long corridor separating two large stocking areas. There was light at the end, and voices, but Harry could only catch what fake-Ron was saying once he had joined the others.

‘This plan sucks, I swear! I can’t even see her. How do you expect me to break her out when I can’t even _get in_? If Granger found me out, there’s no telling when Potter will, and I’d rather not be there when his wrath descends on me! We should never have gone on with the plan when it was _them_ that got sent to the museum.’

There were two other people there. They were all in a small room with a glass door that must have been used as an office by the owner when the warehouse was still an actual warehouse. From where he was standing, Harry could see about fifty percent of the office. There was a cauldron simmering in a corner, no doubt filled with the Polyjuice potion fake-Ron had been using, and a door on the left wall whose knob had been suspiciously wrapped in several chains. Harry would have bet his head that was where they were keeping Ron and hopefully Hermione, too.

All right, so three opponents, two hostages, a few Muggle locks in the way. It was time for Harry to send for reinforcement. Given the hard time they’d been given back at the museum, it was too risky for Harry to act alone.

He took out his wand and had an _Expecto Patronum_ on the tip of his tongue when a realisation hit him. His happiest memory—the first one that came to mind when he had to think about it, it was Draco. Harry had only spent two days with him, and Draco was already Patronus fodder. There was no doubt in Harry’s mind that he’d used a Draco-related memory to cast his Patronus before being Obliviated, too. And he _had_ cast a Patronus that night, even if he hadn’t had time to send a message with it. He’d found the proof. And if what he suspected was true…

The only explanation left for Draco being erased from his memories was that the Obliviate he had been hit with had happened at the exact same time as his Patronus Charm.

Harry concentrated on Draco’s smile and kisses and smooth skin, and waved his wand. The silver stag stood in front of him almost immediately. It approached him calmly, ready to receive its message, and Harry reached out. The exact moment his hand touched the misty substance, everything came back.

There was a blond boy getting fitted for his school robes, an older one keeping Dumbledore at wandpoint and an even older one kissing Harry like his life depended on it. He remembered being completely obsessed about him in sixth year and being a completely selfish bastard where their relationship was concerned later on.

Harry remembered everything, even what happened in Bath.

After that, everything went dark.

~

Harry remembered Bath. He’d been sent there with five other Aurors to bring a priceless magical artefact to its rightful owner. He was taking a break at a local pub when he’d seen Draco Malfoy sitting at a table in the back.

He’d been suspicious right away: there was no way Draco Malfoy being there that particular day was a coincidence. Harry had decided to take preemptive action. He’d gone to have an innocent chat with him, but didn’t fail to remind him of the terms of his probation and that whatever he did, Harry would always find him.

Draco had been adamant he was an honest citizen and had no idea what Harry could possibly be talking about. He talked about suffering prejudices and how the post-War Wizarding World was supposed to be a better one for everybody.

They’d drunk together and talked and even laughed a bit, and then Harry had gone back to his task.

The next day, the artefact had been stolen. The day after that, Harry found it in Draco’s possession. Draco had begged then. He’d told Harry about the awful living conditions of someone on probation. He’d convinced him not to send him to Azkaban and to give him another chance. Harry had taken the artefact back to where it should be without bringing in anyone for the theft, but promised to keep an eye on Draco until he would no longer deem it necessary.

He’d told his friends all about Bath, of course. He’d told them about how untrustworthy Draco Malfoy could be, about how unchanged he really was. What he hadn’t told anybody was that one week after that, on the pretext of checking his behaviour, Harry had gone to Draco’s flat. That was when Harry slept with Draco Malfoy for the first time.

~

‘Harry!’ There was his name in a familiar whisper. ‘Harry, is that you?’ Harry opened his eyes, but it didn’t make the darkness go away.

‘I got captured, didn’t I?’ Harry whispered back because it seemed the appropriate way to communicate.

‘That you did, mate,’ Ron answered, and Harry could hear the smile in his tone. ‘You don’t still have your wand on you, by any chance?’

Harry patted the outside of his pockets hopefully, but these people hadn’t managed to capture Ron and Hermione by being amateurs. ‘I’m afraid not. Is Hermione here?’

‘Yeah, but she’s out. She was brought here during the night, and she was badly hurt. I don’t think it’s too serious, but she needs to recuperate.’

‘So, what’s the plan to get out of there?’ Harry asked a bit too hopefully.

‘Er… at first it was Hermione rescuing me, and during the night it changed to _you_ rescuing us, but you see how that turned out. I reckon that soon there actually won’t be anyone left to do the rescuing.’ 

Harry was still rummaging in his cloak’s pockets, and, yes, there it was. He took out the embroidered handkerchief he’d never taken out of his cloak and smiled. Merlin, it was good to have all of his memories back.

‘Except, there actually is, my dear Ron,’ Harry said with a waggle of his eyebrows that got lost in the darkness. ‘I know I kept it a secret so far, but I’ve got to tell you that I’ve been in a relationship with Draco Malfoy for a few years, now.’

It was incredible how easier it was to reveal his secret to Ron when he knew his friend couldn’t react as badly as his impersonator had.

‘What? But what about Bath?’

‘Water under the bridge. It was a long time ago, and we’ve both changed a lot since then. Keeping our relationship a secret so long was a mistake, but there still is one very good thing that we got out of it.’

‘Is there?’ Harry could hear the confusion in Ron’s whisper and could picture the confusion on Ron’s face in his mind. He knew he must sound a bit like a lunatic, but it was totally worth it.

‘Yes. A long-term secret relationship means making a few adjustments and having to be ingenious about communication. Remember the fake galleons we used with the D.A.? I got two handkerchiefs charmed the same way so that Draco and I could communicate discreetly in all circumstances but with a bit more room to write.’

‘Great, that’s genius,’ Ron said impatiently and with what Harry would bet was a long-suffering eye-roll, obviously not meaning one word of it. ‘Will you shut up and use it, now?’

‘I was actually doing it while talking to you, Ron. The message is sent. The only problem left is that Draco is actually detained in a Ministry cell right now.’

Ron’s grunt at Harry’s announcement was way louder than a whisper.

 

~

Harry, Ron and Hermione got rescued exactly three hours later not by Draco but by the Aurors Draco had managed to show Harry’s message to despite his incarceration.

Hermione’s assertion that Draco had indeed _not_ been the one responsible for her abduction as well as the capture of the three ancient plate-slash-identity thieves had assured Draco’s freedom of all and any doubt. Harry had needed to grovel a little bit for Draco to completely forgive him, but his determination of their relationship not being a secret anymore had already partly done the trick, too.

Ron’s misadventures in kidnapping and Polyjuicing would have been enough to convince him to quit Auroring, but he’d made Hermione a promise anyway. His resignation and all related necessary paperwork (all thirty-two pages of it) were on Williamson’s desk by Monday morning.

Fake-Ron and his cronies got to be reunited with the woman they’d put so much effort into attempting to jail-break. Harry got to bring fake-Ron to his cell personally, and if he accidentally kicked him in the nuts while doing so, it was completely unintentional. They all got sent to Azkaban together as well, and it was kind of a touching ending to their story, really.

Harry kept on being cheesy and lovesick but stopped being a paranoid secretive bastard, and every time Draco kissed him, he would think that it was a very suitable occupation for him to be guarding prisoners because Harry did feel like it took his soul out of his mouth and breathed it back in fuller and brighter every time. And sometimes he said it out loud, too. It was always worth being cheesy because Draco’s response to shut him up usually was kissing him again.

The next week, Neville received a dozen of boxes in the mail containing the most precious, rare and interesting magical plants in existence, but he had no idea why.

~  
 _fin_  
~

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave a comment here or [at the post on Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/15449.html).


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